Cartilage and Skin (35 page)

Even so, I wasn't disheartened by my awareness that the vitality that now motivated me was, in fact, closely fashioned after similar episodes in my life. I was running away and starting over, just as I had done before, but simple logic dictated that hope needed to repeat itself for at least one last time in order for the final rebirth to have a permanent existence. Seeing Crowley's awning up ahead, I continued forward, imagining for an instant that if I were to look back, I'd behold a sidewalk strewn with a series of miscarriages and the aborted carcasses of my past.

When I came closer to the pair of side-by-side doors, with the myriad of stickers on the glass, I began to feel a greater intimacy with Vanessa, for she also seemed to be a person who had failed to progress and had been living trapped in a single moment for fifteen years. As I reached my hand out for the door, I suddenly realized that maybe part of the legal settlement of her divorce had kept her ex-husband nearby, in the other half of Crowley's, where he could nurse his affection for popular music and watch over his ex-wife. Just as it had taken her a long time to admit that her marriage had been stifling the best parts of herself, maybe she was now prepared to have a similar revelation about the clothing store—and another drastic escape was possibly at hand.

I stepped into the store's warmth and its odor of incense, which rescued me from the cold and seemed to welcome me as well. This time the couch was empty, and the music was turned so low that it was just a whispering sound in the background. I moved past the racks of clothes and stepped up to the counter. Yesterday's trash was still in the wicker basket, my folded receipt still on top. I leaned across the counter and tossed in my empty coffee cup.

When I turned, Vanessa was standing in the archway to the backroom. The book I had given her was closed upon her finger. In her other hand, she held her black-rimmed glasses, and smiling, she pointed at me with the arm of her glasses.

“I was just thinking about you,” she said.

She came toward me and opened the book upon the counter.

“I read this paragraph a couple of times,” she said, pressing the book flat with the heel of her palm.

“What's that?” I asked, looking to where her finger now guided me to the lines. She'd apparently read a good portion of the book, and thoughtfully, because many pages were earmarked.

Recognizing the passage at once, I said, “He's watching her in the water.”

“Yeah, but what's she doing in the water? At first, I thought she was going to bathe or swim, but she's got her clothes on.”

“She's going to the bathroom,” I said.

Vanessa tapped me on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

“That's what I thought,” she said. “But he's a stupid kid. He acts like he's watching some type of miracle.”

“It inspires him to write a poem,” I said.

“There's nothing inspirational about that.”

Vanessa was looking steadily at me, as though she were fully willing to absorb whatever I said.

“Remember he recently decided not to be a priest,” I explained, looking back at the book. “And he's given up on God, so when he sees something very earthy, very bodily, he's moved by it. It's the sort of thing that Christianity ignores.”

“I've got to think about it.” She lifted the book close to her face. “But right now, I'm not buying it. If he was a gentleman, he would've given her some privacy. Poor girl.” Vanessa slid her finger halfway down the page and read aloud. “‘Long, long she suffered his gaze.' What a jerk. Let her pee in peace.”

She abruptly closed the book, put it on the counter, and pushed it beside the cash register.

“To me, he doesn't understand girls,” she added.

“I think you're right,” I said, which made Vanessa smile.

Just then the door opened, and a young woman in a ski jacket entered the store. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and she briskly wiped her boots on the front mat.

“Hi,” she said. “Tell me you got a baby doll dress.”

“I think I might,” Vanessa replied, stepping away from me.

“From the sixties?”

“Let's look.”

Vanessa led the young woman over to a rack of clothes where they began inspecting one garment after another. All the while, Vanessa addressed the young woman more as a friend than as a customer. Evidently, one of the woman's co-workers was having a Christmas party, and everyone in her department was invited. But rather than have a traditional party, the co-worker wanted to throw a retro-bash. There were going to be lava lamps and mood rings and lots of Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan. The whole time the young woman spoke, Vanessa smiled, as though she were also going to the party. Occasionally, she glanced over to me, but to show her that I was comfortable waiting, I took the book and went and sat on the low brown couch, which I now realized lacked legs. I rested my shin upon my opposite knee and looked down at the book opened upon my raised thigh, yet I didn't read anything. Vanessa herself seemed exceedingly kind. The attention she gave to the young woman—from helping her off with her ski jacket to listening to her story and showing her various articles—made Vanessa appear miraculous to me. Today, I was able to see her more clearly; the bulky Moravian sweatshirt had been replaced by more elegant clothes. A pair of gray slacks, perhaps soft cotton, elongated the length of her legs and flared slightly above her black shoes, and her simple top was also black, with its neck scooped low and its sleeves stopping short of her wrists; it clung close to her lean body, seeming to broaden her shoulders and flatten her stomach, leaving no confusion about her breasts, which were mild swells, barely more than just two conspicuous nipples. And her blonde hair, which had once been concealed by the hood of her sweatshirt, now trailed down between the points of her shoulder blades. Every time she smiled, I was gently thrilled, for her mouth appeared more sensual, glistening from a touch of lip-gloss.

Just as I had considered preparing myself for her, she'd obviously wanted to look good for me.

Eventually, the young woman took several items into the bathroom in the backroom, and Vanessa stood in the archway and waited.

“Isn't she cute?”

“Yes,” I answered, even though the woman had round, pasty cheeks with red splotches on them.

“I bet she takes the green one. It will go with her eyes,” Vanessa said, looking off into the backroom. After a moment, she turned toward me and asked, “Don't you have to work today?”

“I set my own schedule,” I said, aware that this was the first time she'd expressed an interest in what I did to support myself. “I'm on leave from the college to do research for a book.”

“You work for a college?” she asked. “That seems like you. My exhas a lot of school, but he never went far enough.” She shrugged and smiled. “Thus, no horse clinic.”

“It's hard,” I said, and seeing an opportunity to plant a seed in her head, I added, “But I'm not tied to the college. I can work from anywhere I want.”

“Not me,” she said and then disappeared into the backroom to answer her customer's call for assistance.

True to Vanessa's prediction, the young woman ended up purchasing the green dress, in addition to a pair of high white boots and a matching scarf. At the register, the young woman, apparently inspired by the paraphernalia on display in back, told an anecdote about a time in high school when someone had punctured a hole in the side of an empty beer can and created a make-shift marijuana bowl.

“Necessity is a mother,” Vanessa said.

“Lucky his pot was in plastic because he'd dropped it in the toilet along with his papers.”

“Poor kid,” Vanessa said.

“You're about half right.” The young woman laughed. “He was my boyfriend at the time.”

“Poor girl,” Vanessa corrected and patted the young woman's shoulder.

“I'm recovered.”

The young woman was still laughing when she finally exited the store, and Vanessa upgraded her from cute to adorable.

She leaned in the archway again.

“You came earlier than I expected,” she said. “I'd just sent my niece to the drycleaners with your clothes. I wanted to surprise you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That's nice of you.”

Vanessa bent down and inspected my head.

“It looks worse than yesterday.”

“It hurts less,” I said.

“I don't know when your clothes will be ready. They said sometime today, but it'll probably be at least a couple of hours.” She straightened up and returned to her spot in the archway. She looked at me for a moment without saying anything, which made me conscious of being in the outfit she had sold me the day before.

Lacking an adequate explanation, I rose awkwardly to my feet.

“I need to thank your niece,” I said. “I suppose I can pick up my clothes myself.”

“Sure.” Vanessa nodded. “But you need to wait for Connie to come back with your stub.”

“No problem.” I briefly looked back down at the couch, not quite certain if she intended for me to take a seat again.

With a slight smirk upon her glistening lips, Vanessa watched me, as though my momentary confusion amused her.

“Or you could come back at closing time,” she said, rescuing me.

“Sure,” I said, nodding now myself, wondering whether this was my signal to leave or if I was supposed to stay a little longer. After all, we'd hardly talked.

But she rescued me again.

“My niece and her boyfriend are having dinner at my place tonight, if you want to join us. I have a big piece of salmon in the refrigerator that I need to cook. I'd planned on cooking it last night,” she said, and her allusion to our impromptu date put a suggestive smile on her face.

“Sure,” I said again, still nodding.

Despite my earlier confidence, I felt myself growing flushed and ready to stammer, but Vanessa seemed to ease me gently out the door by placing me in charge of picking up some wine and warning me not to work too hard on my book today. Also, she advised me that Connie preferred something sweet, such as a white zinfandel or a blush.

“She's old enough to drink?” I asked.

“If she's old enough to have a boyfriend,” Vanessa replied, and this casual euphemism for her niece's sexual maturity lingered in my mind as I headed back outside along the sidewalk. Although I had no precise destination, I avoided going anywhere near the social worker's dreadful office. As long as I remained as unobserved as possible, the exact details of that afternoon didn't matter. I ate lunch, which was two more potato pancakes and another cup of coffee, wandered briefly about the regal busts and sculptures of a Rodin exhibit, checked the timetables for my imminent departure, and, of course, purchased several bottles of wine. Meanwhile, dark clouds grew denser over the city, and big snowflakes, like the ashes of a burnt building, began to blow through the streets. As twilight gave way to evening, and the wind increased, swirling gusts of snow became visible from streetlight to streetlight. Higher up, however, above the tops of buildings, the sky was utter darkness, devoid of both snow and motion. I plunged forward, on route back to Crowley's store. Only now did I wish for a little more time, thinking that perhaps a brief visit to a bar for just one quick drink would give me another boost of confidence. But I kept walking. Although I'd had several hours to contemplate my own motivation—let alone to prepare an explanation for where I'd spent the previous night and why I hadn't changed clothes—I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that somewhere between the tilapia in a Thai restaurant and the salmon in her refrigerator, I'd decided to take a risk on Vanessa Somerset. Yet, in that interval, none of my actions appeared to be the result of careful contemplation or a full assessment of the possible consequences. In short, I was simply responding. Vanessa had asked me on a second date, and I obeyed without question, like a dog catching wind of a distant scent and trotting after it.

By the time I returned, the interior of Crowley's music store was dark, and a metal gate obstructed its glass door. Vanessa's side was also closed, for only the backroom was lighted. Hugging the brown bag full of wine bottles, I hurriedly entered, escaping the cold.

Connie's boyfriend was sitting on the counter, while Connie faced him, standing between his open legs.

“You're back,” she said happily.

“Hello,” I said, and imitating the manners of the young woman with the red cheeks, I briskly wiped my feet on the mat.

The boyfriend mutely greeted me with a nod.

“Hold on,” Connie instructed me. Then, as sprightly as a child, she sprung away from the counter and disappeared into the headshop.

Left alone with the boyfriend, I nodded back at him, flashed a brief smile, and absently began to look around.

Although I could hear Vanessa and Connie talking in the other room, I couldn't completely discern their words above the music, the slow, aching procession of a single plaintive guitar.

I sensed that the boyfriend still had his eyes on me. When I ventured a glance at him, he finally spoke:

“So you're the fourth wheel tonight.”

“I suppose.”

He scratched under his chin with one lazy finger. Even though he continued to look at me, he didn't seem as if he had anything else to say.

I wiped my feet again before stepping forward between the motionless racks of shadowy clothes. I intended to poke my head into the backroom, not simply to say hello to Vanessa but also to rescue myself from the boyfriend's discomfiting lassitude. But Connie reappeared in the archway. She now had a white knit ski-cap atop her head. She was proudly holding aloft a broad black bag that was the length of her entire body.

“What did you get me?” she asked, referring to the paper bag in my arms.

“White zinfandel and blush.”

“Two for me.” She turned toward her boyfriend and nodded her head, smiling, as though I'd just impressed her.